


Arya Stark is Sick of this Shit

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arya is sick of everyone's shit, Bran knows everything, F/M, Pining, Rickon is misinformed, Sansa and Jon are clueless, promptfill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7377715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Years after the series and Sansa is kicking herself over her jealousy of the time Jon spends with Arya (that he used to spend with Sansa), since she feels very guilty aboutit. She thinks Jon wants Arya since she resembles Lyanna, but Arya has been helping Jon with how to admit his feelings for Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arya Stark is Sick of this Shit

Sansa:

Septa Mordane taught her long ago that envy was a sin. A grave sin, in fact. One which drew otherwise good people to commit horrible acts. Not to mention, it was an inherently selfish emotion, one born out of entitlement and lack of compassion for another.

Septa Mordane taught Sansa many things, including lessons which she has long since realized were misguided at best. Sansa was raised to be a lady, a traditional lady wife and mother. But her life had other plans for her. And aside from the lessons Sansa simply could not live by (Always tell the truth, trust one’s betters to always do what’s right, submission), there were ones that were just inherently wrong as well as impractical (only highborns are fit company, beware Dornishmen and foreigners, trade being a somehow shameful practice).

That being said, like so many long-lasting systems of guidelines and morals, there were good rules, good lessons. Kindness, charity towards the less fortunate, duty towards those who need you.

The lesson on envy was one of the good ones. Sansa certainly believed in justice, but not dwelling on resentment when one could do better. One can covet things others have without being jealous. There is no shame in that. Sansa covets the bounty and industry the Reach and Braavos possess, the bounty and industry that have allowed them to become so powerful and secure. She wants that for the North, so that they can endure the winters more easily, become stronger, healthier. Though she cannot change the climate, she can use what she has to build wealth and prosperity for her people and turn the climate they have into less of a death sentence. And make sure that House Stark is never unprepared for the machinations of other powers again.

That is good coveting, good ambition. The sort which is in the best interests of others, is to the detriment of no one, and doesn’t waste time or power on self-centered pursuits.

It is what Sansa usually prefers to focus on.

But now, she feels actual envy and resentment. The sort which is not only selfish, but petty and wholly undeserved. The sort that makes her loathe herself.

She sits in Father’s old office, at her desk, which is pressed up against the window overlooking the practice yard. Father had his desk here. He loved watching as the children played and practiced. He was always up to date with Jon, Theon, and Robb’s progress in arms, and eventually Bran’s as well. At supper, he would congratulate them if they achieved anything notable, and the boys would beam with pride.

Sansa watches now as well, but for different reasons. During the War for the Dawn, it was a way for her to keep up to date with the drilling and development of the armies. In addition to every able-bodied man in the North, Winterfell became a training station for southern and eastern soldiers to be coached in combatting the Others and surviving in the harsh, cold climate. Eventually, the situation got so desperate that strong, able-bodied women were recruited as well. Sansa rarely lifted a blade herself, but she did learn about armies, battles, and training. She wrote Jon updates on the progress and the soldiers she’d be sending him three times a week, and kept detailed notes.

With the war won, she watches for another, entirely different reason. She is unwed and has no sons to watch. But she has a brother, a cousin, and now a sister to monitor. While she undoubtedly watches Rickon in the exact same spirit Father observed Robb and Jon, with the others, it’s not the same.

Jon, she watches with excitement, with pride, and with near arousal. Jon is no dancer, but he moves with a grace and speed that entrances her. As the weather warms, he sometimes overheats in his training armor, and will strip it off and walk around either with only his sweat-soaked tunic, clinging to his skin so every contour of his chest, arms, back, and stomach are defined, or even strips off the tunic as well. Most of the time, even when he does keep the armor on, when he finishes for the day, he rips it off before heading to the armory.

There are other well-formed, well-muscled men who sometimes go shirtless, but she doesn’t have the same attraction to them. Joffrey and Harry were well-made, after all. But Jon is brave and gentle and strong and he understands her. So she can barely take her eyes or mind off of him.

Every day, Sansa knows she can always, always send Daenerys an answer. The Dragon Queen has been eager to establish a Stark-Targaryen match since she first took the throne, and Sansa convinced her not to take Jon as her consort. Jon was a much more convenient asset in Winterfell, where he was less likely to become the target of political rivals, or be a potential rival to Daenerys’s authority. Daenerys agreed, but it has not stopped her from wanting to secure their alliance through marriage.

Sansa can send a message to the queen any day she wishes. But she will not, can not.

She loves Jon, but she will not force him into something he doesn’t want. She knows he’d marry her without a second thought, but not because he wants to. He would do it to keep the family safe, to forge a lasting, assured peace between Houses Stark and Targaryen, to keep Sansa safe from unsavory suitors, to provide the North (and, possibly, the Iron Throne) with an heir.

Sansa loves Jon with all of her heart, but she will not have him sign his life away to duty. She wants him to share his life with a woman he loves, a woman he wants. He deserves that, after all he’s sacrificed and suffered. Sansa promised herself when she took back Winterfell and reunited with her family that she would never, ever force them to give up their lives to duty before happiness. They hadn’t survived to be forced into lives they didn’t want. While Jon is her cousin and not her sibling, he is part of her court, and she is responsible for him. And more than that, she loves him. Perhaps not as a sibling, but she loves him madly. If she can give her hero freedom and the happy ending he deserves, she can be happy.

To even suggest they wed, to even tell him of Daenerys’s wishes, would instantly mean he’d do it. Jon, above all, does his duty. Jon, above all, is unselfish. Jon, above all, jumps to do whatever he can to help and serve others. If he got wind that a marriage between him and Sansa was an option favored by the new queen, he’d do it at once.

But Jon does not love her the way she loves him. His past lovers were wildling spearwives, fierce women who fought like men. Sansa isn’t that. She never really will be. Any violence on her part only ever could go as far as what she has to do when there is no other choice. Though she’s strayed from the past dictated for her as a child in a number of ways, she is still a lady.

Jon could never want her, never love her like that. She will not make him become hers. He is meant for a woman who can fight and kill and trek through leagues of icy tundra and drag wildling warlords back to the Wall.

She is reminded of that now, every time she looks out the window. Or almost any time she sees him these days.

When Arya returned to them just a few moons ago, Sansa was as overjoyed as the rest. Her sister does not speak much of her time missing, and they do not force answers from her. They will come in time, if Arya needs them to. Sansa has fully reconciled with her sister. She loves her, with all of her heart. She wants nothing more than to make up for the time lost to not only separation, but the strife between them that characterized their childhood.

Which makes her hate herself all the more now.`

Before Arya returned, Jon spent many, many of his hours with Sansa. Not just when they worked together at running Winterfell (Jon served as her Castellan), but in their free time as well. Many an evening was spent walking in the godswood or glass gardens, or sitting in their solar by the fire, and simply talking. She can tell Jon anything, she discovers.

This is clearly something Arya knows about Jon as well. Now, so much of his time is spent with Arya. They spar, train, and hunt together. They drink together, trade jokes together. You rarely encounter one without the other.

They were always close as children. And if anyone deserves and needs to have Jon all to herself, it’s Arya.

It’s not just Jon’s absence that hurts now, though. It’s the feeling that not only does Arya confide in Jon, but that Jon confides in Arya.

Her cousin confided in her many times during their time together. But since Arya has returned, Jon refocusses that attention on her sister. Worse: Sansa has the feeling he tells Arya things he’s kept from her. She’d thought, before her sister returned, that Jon told her everything. But now… She isn’t sure what it is, but she can tell there’s something Arya knows that Jon is keeping from her.

It’s her own fault. She was never as close with Jon as she was with the others. But they’d been building a new bond for years now. They were the first Starks to reunite. She was the first he told about his wolf dreams. They’d worked together when the War of the Dawn came, partners. Him as the military commander on the battlefield, her as the caretaker defending their home, keeping civilians safe, leading the people through the winter, and getting him what he needed to beat their enemies.

It’s been five years now. Indeed, three days ago, it was the five-year anniversary of when they found one another again. Jon never really kept track of such things, but Sansa did. He spent that day hunting with her sister. They came back, laughing and bringing home wild boar for the table.

She now watches them in the yard, thrusting and parrying in their armor, with their practice blades, sweaty, dirty, in high cheer. Afterwards, they will likely go swing in the hot springs together as they so often do. Arya looks happy: something that comes difficult to her. Her eyes tell stories of horrors witnessed. When she first returned, she was distant, angry, depressed. She’s improved. It’s mostly thanks to Jon.

Sansa tries not to think on it too much. She tries to concentrate on the letter she’s writing to Lord Manderly about the expansions in White Harbor.

If she were a good woman, a good sister, she would feel nothing but joy for Arya, to see her home and happier. To know that Jon has comforted her so.

But Sansa, hard as she may try, is not a good woman. She’s not. She cannot get the sound of their laughter and their good-natured teasing out of her head. It hurts her.

What kind of person was hurt by the joy of the people she loved? Just because it didn’t include her?

An awful, selfish, person.

Jon doesn’t belong to her. She knows that. But she can’t accept it. Jon heals others. He healed Sansa, now he heals Arya. And she has no right to resent that. She has no right to feel entitled to or robbed of his company. Especially not to Arya.

But inside, despite how horrible she knows this to be, she is jealous. She is hurt.

She knows Jon can never love her the way she loves him. Her feelings toward him are not that of a sibling. Things change. And if they can change for her, they can change for him.

She looks down at them again, and sees Arya and Jon move about, concentrating, fighting. Arya is a warrior, a hunter, exactly the sort of woman Jon has always wanted. And their bond is palpable. They make one another happy. Her feelings towards Jon have changed. So can his towards Arya, and vice-versa.

Arya is seven-and-ten now, and has grown beautiful. She has grown into her elongated features, giving her an elegant, pixie-ish appearance. Her dark grey eyes are sharp and arresting, her figure elfin, her smile bright. Those who remember says she looks exactly like Father’s beautiful sister, Lyanna, Jon’s mother. That must also have its appeal.

Sansa gazes at them and believes that they can fall in love and make one another happy. Perhaps they are already in love. She can believe that as well.

It could even be a win-win in many ways. Suitors will come calling soon, Arya could stand to be protected from that. Jon would never hold her down, try to make her into a traditional lady. It would be the Stark-Targaryen match that Daenerys craved.

It would break her heart. But it could protect everyone else. And make Jon and Arya happy.

It takes her a few seconds to realize that she’s weeping. She looks down and sees her tears have caused the ink of her letter to smear.

Her jealousy, her stupidity, her selfishness is even getting in the way of her duties now.

She can’t be this person. Arya and Jon deserve better. She has to be the sister they deserve. She will not be selfish. She will not.

Sansa makes a decision and lets herself weep further. Then she puts the letter to Lord Manderly aside, pulls out some parchment, and begins to write.

To Her Grace Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Seven Realms of Westeros, Queen of Slaver’s Bay, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Princess of Dragonstone, Mother of Dragons, and Protector of the Realm from Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Mistress of Moat Cailin, and Warden of the North, Greeting…’

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Arya:

Arya groans in delight as she leans back against the slippery stone ends of hot spring, loving the hot water against her sore flesh. This is pure comfort, pure pleasure.

Jon sits across from her, looking less delighted and more, well, Jon. Arya ignores him for a little while, wanting to enjoy her relaxing bath for at least a little while before diving into Jon’s issues.

Her brother mystifies her. Arya has returned to Winterfell after years or horrific living to find the best outcome she could have dreamt of waiting for her. Her remaining family: her brothers and her sister alive and well, Winterfell back in Stark control, peaceful and prospering, everyone reunited. While she misses her happy childhood and lost loved ones horribly, there are even aspects to her home now that she wished she’d had when she was a child. She trains and fights and lives as she wishes, no more pressure and reprimands for not being a proper lady. Sansa rules Winterfell, and forces nothing upon her, and if a ruling Sansa is not forcing anything on her, then no one will. Arya is truly free. Free to be who she is without judgment. There are even other lady bladesmiths and warriors here now. Spearwives, Sansa’s sworn shield Brienne, Lyra Mormont, Meera Reed… She and Nymeria are back with their true pack, with Summer, Shaggydog, and Ghost.

Despite everything she’s suffered, Arya feels complete whiplash over the good fortune she’s found. Sometimes she thinks it’s a dream.

Back in the dark days, she always dreamt of returning home, finding her family again, them being altogether and safe. And this was as good, if not better, than what she’d hoped for following the Red Wedding.

Jon has all he could reasonably ask for these days, too. He’s not even a bastard anymore, but a legitimate prince. Even better: he hasn’t been forced into anything as a result of that. The Dragon Queen lets him stay up North, with them. Everyone calls him Prince, he’s always at the high table, even during grand banquets. After Sansa, he’s the most important person in Winterfell, possibly the whole North. He’s free to marry and have children, has a proper name to give him. If he wants, he could probably be granted a fiefdom of his own from Daenerys or Sansa.

But Jon is Jon. And somehow, he finds things from the present and future to anguish over.

Arya watches him carefully. Jon worries about a few major issues. One is his identity as a Targaryen, both personally and politically. He frets over what happened between his parents, the fact that Father lied, whether it changes him as a person. He also worries over what will happen if Daenerys cannot produce an heir. If he’ll have to become king or produce heirs for House Targaryen. Another is basic leadership and administration concerns that he must attend to in his duties as Castellan of Winterfell.

The third is far, far less rational than the other two.

Jon is in love.  
Arya has possibly been in love once. It ended badly. But that isn’t Jon’s situation. His love can’t end badly, because it hasn’t even really begun. Jon hasn’t been rejected, abandoned, or betrayed. The one he loves doesn’t love or belong to another. He’s not lost anyone.

Admittedly, there is one complication to the situation. A fairly considerable one which is awkward, even and especially for Arya.

She sighs. “What are you brooding over now?”

He looks up and hesitates, then admits, “Sansa.”

Arya groans. Of course.

Jon is in love with Sansa. Who, not too long ago, was supposed to be as much his sister as Arya.

But he confessed to Arya three moons prior that his feelings for Sansa have become utterly unlike anything a brother should feel for his sister.

Since then, he’s continued to agonize over it, afraid to tell her, unsure how to tell her, unsure if he should. He doesn’t want to disgust her, or ruin the bond they have now. He doesn’t wish to pressure her. He doesn’t want to be like all of the other men who have lusted after her. He feels unworthy of her.

It utterly tears him apart. She knows, because nearly all the time they’ve spent together, he’s been talking about it. Talking about it nonstop. Reminding her of it. Basically telling her all the things she’s never, ever wanted to hear, and all the things he should be saying to her sister. But he won’t. He tells her. And it’s getting to the point where she wants to strangle him.

Arya, for her part, has been trying to come to terms with it. She’s not thrilled at the idea. Slowly, she’s managed to become less repulsed by the idea, less hurt. It’s become clear to her that Jon’s feelings for Sansa haven’t and shouldn’t change anything about the bond she shares with him, that she will always be his little sister. And as she’s spent more time around the two, she cannot help but… see it.

They work together ruling Winterfell in a perfect harmony. Indeed, they do everything in a perfect harmony. They make one another happy, trust each other, understand each other. Arya has even picked up on just how alike they are. Both are reserved, dutiful, self-sacrificing, observant, judgmental, obsessed more with what they’re supposed to be than what they want, traditional, brave, hard-working, long-term thinkers with great endurance. They both remind her so much of Father.

When Arya first observed them together, she’d noted something was… different, odd about their interactions. But she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Then Jon confessed his feelings to her, and now, she can’t help but see it constantly.

It’s now obvious with every look Jon gives her that he’s mad for her. But it’s not just that. It’s that the two of them remind her so, so much of Mother and Father. The way they sit together and speak calmly and quietly to one another. The way they smile at one another and sometimes seem to come to the same conclusions at the same time without saying a word, and realize it. The way they anticipate one another’s needs, are immediately aware when something is bothering the other when the other tries to hide it. The way that when they are tired and stressed, they comfort one another with embraces and comforting hands upon the shoulder. How, when they are in disagreement, they try to act calm and peaceful in front of others, but still speak to each other in these clipped tones, and how their unhappiness seems to be less about the argument itself and more about the fact that they’re arguing at all. The way they fuss over each other. How they always check with one another before making a major decision, or leaving the castle. How their first instinct upon having to resolve something important is to call for the other.

Jon looks at Sansa like she’s the moon. He reacts to every move she makes. He smiles when she’s near. His first instinct is to always find out if anything, anything at all is bothering her, resolve the situation, and make her happy however he can. And if he can’t solve the problem, he is in a sour mood for days.

Whenever he and Arya are together and see something beautiful, like a field of flowers or a rainbow when they’re riding, he always mentions how much Sansa would love it. When he’s at the Wintertown markets, he will often linger and gaze at stalls selling books of stories, instruments like the high harp and bells, bolts of fine cloth, flowers, or jewelry. And Arya knows why. He looks at all these fripperies that he once mocked and disdained, and thinks about giving them to Sansa. Imagining Sansa smelling the scent of the flowers or weaving them into her hair. Imagining how she’d look in this bauble or a gown of that cloth. Imagining her delightedly reading stories from a book to all of them. Imagining her happily playing her new instrument and singing for them as she did in her sweet voice.

He spots things Sansa would probably like, and fantasizes about giving them to her. When he’s supposed to be in town to order shipments of lumber, or purchase new spurs, or some such thing.

Her solemn, rugged, salt-of-the-earth brother longs to dress her lady sister up in silk and diamonds, surround her with flowers, and listen to her sing silly songs and tell stupid stories. Her brother, who still wears old leathers and ringmail and still dresses like a Ranger of the Night’s Watch, fantasizes about pampering Sansa with fine things. Once he disdained luxuries, now he thinks they have all the value in the world, because Sansa might enjoy them.

He also worries about her incessantly, agonizes over how to help her. Arya feels she’s learned more about her sister: her traumas, her fears, her pain, her dreams, talking to Jon than she has talking to Sansa herself. And it’s clear there’s so much about her that he understands. He’s able to predict her actions and reactions to things with an uncanny accuracy.

In short, he’s exactly the sort of man Father would want for Sansa. Hell, he’s exactly the sort of man Arya wants for Sansa.

There’s still the brother aspect, but Arya has slowly come to realize that she’s growing used to the idea. At this rate, two moons from now she’ll be demanding they wed.

She isn’t sure how to feel about that.

She does know that she hates to see her brother unhappy. Despite her misgivings, she does worry about this. Eventually, both of them will have to marry. Jon could lose her, lose his chance.

Then there’s Sansa. Arya actually feels rather frustrated with her sister. Partly because Sansa still hasn’t managed to pick up on how Jon feels about her despite how glaringly obvious it is. And partly because Sansa herself is so hard to read.

While it’s clear her sister cares for Jon deeply, Arya cannot be sure what the nature of that love is. Sansa holds her emotions so close to her chest, and she doesn’t like talking too much about such things. She constantly puts on an act, trying to be perfect. The perfect lady. The perfect ruler. The perfect sister. To the point where Arya sometimes isn’t sure who Sansa truly is.

For all she knows, if Jon tells Sansa how he feels, she’ll be overjoyed and reciprocate, and they’ll live happily ever after. Or, she could be horrified by it.

But Arya does know that regardless, Jon eventually will have to tell her. Even if Sansa is not pleased, they’ll work through it. They’ve worked through worse things, and they’ve suffered enough being apart to allow their bonds with one another to be permanently damaged now that they’re together again at last.

If Sansa does reject him, there will be some tension for a while, but eventually she’ll forgive. And Jon will have his answer and be able to move on.

He won’t do that if he never tells her. Especially if and when she eventually takes a husband.

And the clock is ticking on that as it is. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell. She cannot stay unwed forever. And for that matter, neither can Jon. Queen Daenerys has been wed to Prince Trystane for three years now, and has still not birthed an heir.

And even if Sansa doesn’t lover Jon that way, she deserves to know that, at the very least, she can be wanted and loved by a man as good as Jon. Not just licentious, ambitious opportunists.

Arya groans again. “You need to tell her, and soon, Jon.”

“What if I hurt her? I couldn’t bear to do that.”

“You mean no ill will. Sometimes we can’t help hurting people. But Sansa is strong enough to move past it, Jon. She’s been dealt worse blows than a good man telling her he loves her.”

Her brother rubs his temple. “We’ve just… We’ve spent all these years forming this beautiful bond, rebuilding the North, working together, trusting each other. I don’t want to destroy that.”

“You won’t. Sansa’s first priority is The North. And your partnership has done far too much good for the North for her to allow that to be permanently ruined. She has a kind heart, and she does care for you. She will understand. Just get on it, already.”

“I don’t know…”

She opens her mouth to say something, but is interrupted by a nervous voice calling out. “My.. My Lady Arya?”

She looks over her shoulder to see a page of about twelve standing ten yards away, covering his eyes and blushing.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Lady Stark has requested a private audience with you at the earliest opportunity. She says it’s important.”

Arya is surprised. Usually, it’s Jon who gets called away for things like this. He is castellan, after all. Still, she rises slowly from the water and begins putting her clothes back on. “Duty calls, Brother. I will see you at dinner.”

Jon nods, seeming completely unfazed. He’s too busy moping to care.

Arya stops in her quarters to change into something less filthy before meeting Sansa in her office. It’s Father’s old room, only now with fancy paintings on the walls and bright blue velvet cushions on the chairs and blue velvet drapes on the windows. Sansa rises from her desk when Arya enters, hurriedly rolling up some parchment and gripping it.

Arya takes one look at her sister and her stomach sinks. Sansa’s eyes are red, her face puffy.

“What’s wrong? Who was it, and what did they do?”

“What?”

Arya steps forward, more than ready to cut whoever it is to ribbons. “Who threatened you?”

“No one! Why would you think that?”

“You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not!”

Arya gave her sister an incredulous look. She could rarely read her sister, but she knew tears when she saw them. “Stop lying. What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Arya. It’s just that… I’ve been thinking about your future.”

Arya’s heart sinks along with her stomach. She’s been dreading this. Sansa has assured her that she wouldn’t be forced into anything, but her sister does have responsibilities. Ideally, Arya would prefer to spend her days serving as Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms. But Houses had to establish alliances. Marriages were necessary. Arya is the oldest Stark after Sansa. She trusts her sister not to force her to marry, but she knows she can’t reasonably expect the Lady of Winterfell not to try and encourage her to make a match that will benefit the family. It’s possible that Sansa plans to wed soon as well, and wants them to make matches together. Maybe something’s happened that demands it, and that’s why she’s crying.

The younger Stark sister feels guilty as sin. Sansa has taken on so much, and asked nothing of any of them. She doesn’t want her sister to endure a political match alone. But making one herself is one of her worst nightmares.

“…And?”

“I… I know you probably are very averse to marrying, especially a dynastic marriage. I understand. Nevertheless, you are a maiden of very high birth with no attachments, healthy and fertile, of a House with great power but few heirs. It… It will not be long before the suitors come calling, hoping to secure your hand and an alliance between their House and ours.”

Arya nods. She understands. She says nothing.

Sansa hesitates. “And I would spare you that. I don’t want you being pursued by opportunistic strangers, or feeling pressured to make some match with a man you barely know. I would… I would rather have you marry for love.”

“I appreciate that.” She means it.

“Still, before long, many of our vassals, who are used to generations of forging alliances through marriage, will likely start to feel… denied, neglected, rebuffed. Stark ladies of marriageable age, and us not accepting a single suit? It will begin to feel like a slight. It could breed unrest.”

“I would not want to make things harder for you.”

Her sister smiles softly. “I know you wouldn’t. So, I believe the ideal solution would be for you to make an advantageous, dynastic marriage with a man you could love. One who could and would make you happy. And, preferably, not require you to leave home. Someone who knows and understands you, and would love you more for what you are, than as a traditional Lady Wife. Arranging such a match for you, and doing it quickly, would mean avoiding any and all such pressures.”

Arya snorts. “Aye, and if I shit gold, we’d never have to deal with the pressures of our treasury being emptied. It’s just as likely for me to find such a man in a short time.”

Sansa wrinkles her nose at the language. Then Arya notices that the hand holding the parchment begins to tremble. “You couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve been worrying about you being pressured into something that would make you unhappy for a while. But today… today I realized that there’s been an obvious solution this whole time. We already have that suitor, immediately available.”

Arya is stunned by this. Frantically, she runs through the list of every nobleman she’s friendly with, and tries to figure out who Sansa could possibly mean. She can’t think of anyone.

“What do you mean? There’s no one!”

Sansa’s hand still trembles. “Arya, of course there is. The person who is closer to you than anyone, the person who loves you for who you are, the person you love more than anyone, the person you’re always, always with.”

“The only man I spend tons and tons of time with is—” Then she stops. She sways. No. No. This is impossible. Sansa couldn’t possibly mean.

“Jon. Yes. I’ve been watching you both, and…. And you…” She trails off for a second, pauses, then continues in a strained voice, “You two make one another so happy. You understand each other so well. With him, you’d never have to surrender your blade for a sewing needle, you’d never have to leave home, you’d never have anything to fear. You’d only ever be bound to the person who would give you everything you could possibly want or need.”

Arya’s jaw drops. “He’s my BROTHER!”

Sansa flinches. “Technically, he isn’t, Arya.”  
“I don’t care what his name is, he’s my brother to me!” She’s stunned.

“I… I see.” Sansa looks downward. Her expression is odd. If Arya were to guess, she’d say it was a mix of embarrassment and…. Relief? Or maybe guilt? Her sister takes a deep breath. “I… I just… You two spend so much time together and love each other so much—”

“Yes, because he’s my brother.” Arya feels almost faint. This is one of the strangest, most disgusting things she’s ever witnessed. And she’s witnessed some very strange, disgusting things. “I love him as a brother. Gods, Sansa, I grew up knowing him as my brother. How in the Seven Hells can you imagine that I’d want him as a husband?! Jon’s the Targaryen, not me!”

“I… I thought perhaps… After being separated for so long, and all the changes… Feelings might have changed. You two are even more inseparable now than you were as children, and I… Forgive me. I just… I just… I just wanted to…”

She drops her parchment and clutches her middle like she’s been hit. The tears fall again. Sansa steps back, swaying, and falls back into her desk chair. Arya gapes. She’s never seen her like this.

“Sansa… It’s alright…” It was actually rather sweet, albeit in a horrifying way. She steps toward her sister, reaching out to lay her hand on her shoulder. But Sansa jumps and swats her hand away, looking Arya straight in the eye.

“No! No, it isn’t! I can’t… I’m… I’m just so… So twisted. I want to do what’s right, want to make everyone happy, give you all the happiness you deserve but… I’m so… I’m wrong. I’m all wrong. I’m damaged. I can’t be like the rest of you. I lost Lady, and ever since then, I’ve been warped.”

Arya stares at her sister in disbelief. What could she possibly mean? Sansa is the Stark in Winterfell. Everything she’s accomplished would make their father weep with pride. “Don’t be absurd, of course—”

“—-Of course Jon is your brother! What else could he be? Maybe he’s Jon Targaryen now, but we grew up with him! He was our brother for so long, far, far longer than he’s been a Targaryen. Why should you see him as anything other than a brother. But then… You always did. All of you. I was the only one who insisted on calling him half-brother. I’m the only one who has lost her wolf. All of you, even Jon, Targaryen or not, are the proper, good Starks. I’m… I’m defective, twisted. I’ve lost the Stark feelings, the Stark principles, the things that separated us from the Lannisters of the world. Of course you still feel… The way you should. You’re not—”

“Sansa, stop it!” Arya kneels and grabs her sister’s face, staring deep into her eyes. “Sansa, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You’re… You’re… Well, I mean… You’re the perfect one, for pity’s sake! How could you possibly think—”

And then it hits her. It’s not just Lady. Oh no.

Oh yes? Her brain says to her. She isn’t sure. She rises and pulls away. “You’re in love with Jon.”

Sansa pulls back, hugging herself. “I shouldn’t. I’m all wrong for him. I just… I just want him to be happy, Arya. He can never know. If he did, he’d feel obligated to marry me. He’d be trapped in a marriage to me, instead of with the sort of strong warrior he’d actually want. You can’t tell him, Arya. Please. I’m begging you.”

Arya takes a deep breath and chooses her words carefully. “I will not tell him you’re in love with him. I promise.”

All of a sudden, it all makes sense. She now looks back on Sansa over the last several moons and realizes her sister’s behavior is just as obviously lovesick as anything Jon has done. Well, perhaps not as obviously. But now that it’s said…

Sansa is just as good at anticipating Jon’s behavior as he is at anticipating hers (except for this one, giant thing). Arya has repeatedly caught her perusing weapon, armor, and horse vendors with an interest she’d never displayed before. She fusses over Jon more than she fusses over anyone, and that was saying something, considering her sister was basically 10% silk, 5% lemon cake, and 85% fuss. Whenever he enters her presence, her posture relaxes, and she smiles more easily. She’s always watching him in the yard from her office window.

Hell, she’s even started wearing her hair differently after Jon said he preferred it loose one time at dinner.

Seven bloody, fucking, shit-flavored, cock-licking, horse-cunted Hells. “Sansa…” But Arya stops herself. She was going to tell her sister how Jon felt, but no. He needs to be the one to tell her. “It’s going to be alright. I won’t tell him or anyone else. And I can help you.”

“How could you possibly help me?!”

“Just… Just… Just dry your eyes and act normally. Don’t worry. It’s going to be alright.” Very awkwardly, she pats her sister on the back.

“What you must think of me…”

“I think you’re a bloody fool. But I’ve always felt that way. So calm your teats stop blubbering. You’re Lady of Winterfell, for fuck’s sake. I will see you soon.”

She storms out of the office and hurries to the family wing. She knocks sharply on Jon’s door. She enters at his call and finds him half-naked.

“Oh, Arya, hello. What’s going—”

He’s cut off by his back being against the wall and a blade being at his neck.

“Listen to me very, very carefully,” Arya says to him, “It is time for you to stop being such a bloody coward. I am done listening to your bullshit. You’re the fucking Hero of the Dawn. And I am not going to let you go another night without being honest to my sister. Do you understand me?”

“I… I… Why…?”

“Because I’m sick of this. And I’ll be damned if I see Sansa marry herself off to some red-faced lout without knowing she has a man who loves her.”

“She’s… She’s entertaining marriage propositions?!”

Arya releases him and turns away, stowing away her blade. “You’re going to tell her, and you’re going to tell her properly. You’re going to stop waiting and do what you’ve too craven to do for months.”

“What’re you—?”

She spins around and glare. “Get dressed, get your purse, and get your bastard arse down to the stables. We’re going shopping.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

He fidgets as he dismounts in Winterfell’s courtyard, the box in his pocket feeling like it burns. It certainly burned a hole in his purse.

But it’s clear that Arya will not listen to complaints. She refuses to give him details on what she and Sansa spoke about, but clearly it infuriates her, and it terrifies him. Someone’s made a demand, clearly. He just wishes he knew who. The Ryswells? The Glovers? One of the Mountain Clans? Or someone is offering her a bribe she can’t refuse. Most likely a bribe worth far more than the overpriced trinket he now carries.

This is a terrible idea. But thus far, arguing with Arya about this would accomplish nothing. He observes her carefully. Jon fully intends to tell her ‘No’ firmly. But it’s best to do it once she’s calmed a bit and can see reason. Otherwise, he can’t be sure that she won’t run off and tell Sansa herself.

Arya’s scowl has weakened, at least. When she dismounts, she takes a deep breath before speaking to him. “Alright. I will instruct the kitchens to make a special dinner for you and Sansa. Would you prefer it in her solar, or for it to be a picnic?”

“Arya… I really—”

“No!” She gets in his face and holds up a furious finger. “I have been listening to you whine about this for months, ever since I got back, alright?! Half the time we’ve spent together, you’ve spent it brooding and wallowing over her. And I have had enough! I am sick of you using me as your love-confessor just because you can’t speak to her! You have faced down an army of the dead, and I will be damned if I see you let Sansa surrender herself to some stranger because you’re too craven to be honest with her! I’m done. You should know better, and I am finished losing respect for you! And I am finished listening to this! So, you are going to get a fresh shave, you’re going to borrow one of those male perfumes from the Satin bastard who serves you, you are going to put on your best clothes, and you are going to feed my sister fancy food and give her those stupid rocks and you. Are. Going. To. Tell. Her. How. You. Feel!”

He’s had enough. “No, Arya, I’m not. This is not your decision to make. And I will be damned if you are going to threaten my relationship with Sansa, understand? This is not your decision, and it is not your business!”

She laughs sardonically. “Are you fucking kidding me?! No, you don’t get to say that after blabbing at me for the past three months about this, alright? This is my business. This is my family, and you chose to involve me. So guess what? I’m not doing this any longer. Or I swear, I—”

“You will not scare me into doing this, Arya.”

She glares. “Don’t you dare pretend that you’re being brave here, Snow. Because all you’re standing up for is your own cowardice.”

He is frozen, knocked senseless by that.

She turns on her heel now and begins walking away. “I’ve decided for you!” She shouts over her shoulder. “It’s going to be a picnic!”

Jon groans and looks down. His sister spent the morning attacking him with a practice blade. But this, this was truly her beating him senseless.

Mostly because she’s right. And that’s why Jon knows that he is going to do this. Despite how bad an idea it is. Because Arya is right. He’s being a coward. And he can’t be a coward. He’s better than that.

He has to face the consequences for his feelings. He needs to. Even if it means horrifying Sansa. She, at the very least, deserves to know.

He groans and goes to Torrhen, the barber, who trims his beard. Satin gives hima scent of sandalwood. He dons the black velvet that he last wore to Daenerys’s coronation. And he goes to Sansa’s chambers.

She answers the door herself, and her eyes widen at the sight of him. “Jon? What—-?”

“Um, I need you to come with me. It’s… It’s very important.”

She goes white. “Jon, I don’t know what you’ve heard but…. What is it? Please, tell me.”

He shakes his head. “No, I… I need you to come with me. You’ll understand when you see it. Please… Trust me?”

She looks him in the eyes for a while, then takes a deep breath. “Yes, Jon.”

Sansa seems miserable. Jon pretends not to panic. But inside, he’s screaming. Oh Gods. Arya’s told her. Sansa knows, she knows what he’s going to say, and she’s dreading this, because his feelings disgust her. He curses his sister.

They make their way down to the courtyard. Jon fumes. He spots Arya across the yard. She nods encouragingly at him. He only glares. He’s going to kill her.

But he can’t now. All he can do is follow the instructions his terrible, awful, loudmouthed sister gave him, and escort his glowering cousin towards the godswood. They’re both silent.

They come to the clearing at the Heart Tree, and, as Arya promised, there is a red silk blanket laid out, and a basket of food and plate, and a bottle of Dornish Red. His hands shake as he starts serving them. There is sweetgrass salad, fresh trout in butter, strawberries, and lemon cakes. All the things she loves. They’re silent as they eat, which is little. It seems neither of them can keep much down.

Jon finally puts his barely-touched plate aside. “Sansa… I think you probably know why we’re here. What I have to tell you. And I am so… so sorry.”

She shakes a little, lowers her plate, downs her cup of wine, and wipes her mouth. Her voice is tiny. “Yes, Jon. It’s… It’s alright. I understand. I feel so terrible—”

“No! Don’t!” He insists. “I should be the one who—

She holds up a hand and looks at him. “If I had my way, you’d have never known, I swear. I didn’t even tell Arya! She just figured it out. I begged her not to tell you, but…. Apparently her word means little.”

“Well, I think we both have reason to—- Wait, what?!” He gapes at her, completely lost. “What are you talking about? What did you say to Arya?”

Sansa drops her empty cup. “You mean Arya didn’t tell you anything?!”

“No! I mean, she implied that you might be entertaining marriage offers, but… what did you think she said to me?”

“Nothing!” She tosses her hair and laughs. “Nothing important anyways. I just… I thought that… Well, never mind. Just something stupid. What did you bring me here for? What did you need to tell me?”

He freezes. “Um… I…” Coward. He cringes. He can’t be a coward. He refills his cup, empties it. Refills his cup, empties it again. Then he reaches into his pocket and sets the box down in front of her, shutting his eyes in fear.

She gasps. And despite, well, everything, Jon feels a twinge of pride at that. That gasp alone is worth the price.

He has to admit, looking at it, it’s worthy of the gasp after all. There’s a king’s ransom worth of sapphires and diamonds there. Some of those blue stones are the size of his thumbnail. But they’re the exact color of her eyes. And she has a neck made for jewels like this. And it was a crime that he never got to see her wear such things.

Sansa should have things like this in her life. She deserves them. She was made for them.

“Gods, Jon! How… Why… The expense!”

“Well,” Jon admits, “It’s not… Well… Not as much as you’d expect! Jewelers have been hit hard over the last few years, after all. And with our alliance with the Free Folk, stones like that are more available. So… “ He stops. “Do you… Do you like it?”

“It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever been given. It’s… It’s… “ Her fingers brush the surface of the shining stones. She looks at him. “But I don’t understand, Jon. Why would you give me something like this?”

His jaw drops. And the words come spilling out. “I mean, you’re exactly the person meant for this! You’re meant to be showered in things like this. It’s disturbing that you don’t wear things like this every day! You’re the perfect, beautiful, magnificent creature things like this are meant for. The woman wars should be fought for. I’ll never be able to find anything as beautiful as you to give to you. But the least I can do is give you the prettiest, finest thing I can acquire. You ought to have these things, so people can look at those stones and look at you and marvel at how your eyes outshine precious stones. So that someone can look at you and know someone loves you enough to give you such a thing. How could I not—?”

She goes red. “Jon… That’s… That’s… That’s so lovely. But I can’t… I can’t take it. I can’t!”

His heart starts to crack. “But… Why? Don’t you understand—?”

She closes the box and pushes it towards him. “Save this, save your lovely words for the woman you love, Jon.”

“But that’s what I’ve been doing!” He sputters. Then he stops. He wants to sink into the ground. Oh gods. He’s said it.

She freezes. She inhales sharply. “Jon… Swear to me, swear to me that Arya didn’t tell you anything!”

“Please don’t marry him,” Jon manages to say, “Please.”

“Marry who?”

“Whoever you think you have to marry to keep the North safe. Whoever is offering you what you think you can’t refuse. Or threatening you. Or whatever. I know the vassals are demanding, but you give every day to the North. You should marry for love, Sansa. Please. Don’t give yourself to someone who doesn’t deserve you. It doesn’t have to be me, but please, just… Just don’t let it be someone you feel obligated to accept. You don’t have to marry me, you don’t have to love me. Just love someone and marry him.”

There’s another long, pregnant pause. “Arya really didn’t tell you, did she?”

“She told me that I had to tell you how I feel about you tonight. She held a knife to my throat while telling me. She was furious. She told me she was done listening to me whine about it. And that I was being a coward.”

More silence. They stare at one another for a while. Then she starts panting. “How you feel about me. Which is, remind me?”

“I’ve been madly in love with you for… I don’t even know. A while. Since the war. The only time I cried during the war was when the camp caught fire and my collection of your letters burned.” Shut up, Snow!

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” She sounds stunned.

“Of course! For pity’s sake, Sansa, it shouldn’t be so surprising! You’re the sort of woman that steals hearts without even trying! It shouldn’t be so hard to believe! I mean, have I ever lied to you?”

“No… No, you haven’t. But you’re the type of man who would lie not to break the heart of a woman who loved him. And if Arya told you—-”

“—Arya didn’t tell me anything except how much of a failure I am and how she’s not tolerating it anymore!” He cries out in exasperation. “What in the Seven Hells did—” Then it hits him. And he feels lightheaded. And giddy. And afraid. Because what if he’s wrong. “Sansa, for the love of god, what is it that you thought Arya told me? Please, before I say any more idiotic things, I need to know.”

She blushes. “That I cannot love you as she loves you. Because you are a brother to her. And to me, you are the person I want to spend my life and have children with. Because you are everything I could ever want. Because you are the reason I can smile again. Because my heart belongs to you. And… so does every part of me worth a damn. If you want me. Even though I feel like I could never be so fortunate as to be loved by a man as good as you. All I know is that your happiness is what the sun rises for, and I would do anything, give anything to preserve it. I love you to the point of pain. It consumes me.”

More silence.

After several minutes of nothing but the chirps of crickets, he manages to make a sound. “Ah.”

“Ah.”

Then they both smile. And the smiles widen. And their mouths open. And they’re giving small giggles. The giggles escape and increase. And soon, they become loud belly laughs. Jon finds himself clutching his side. And it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

She tries to speak, breathless from it all. “We’re… We’re so… We should have…”

“Oh gods…” Jon manages to sputter, nodding, “…Poor Arya! No… No wonder… No wonder she… started threatening me!”

“We’re bloody hopeless!” She says, shaking her head, her laughs dying down. Jon gains control of himself, then reaches out to stroke her cheek.

“Well… No…” He says, breathless in the best way. “Not anymore.”

When their lips touch, his body feels like the surface of a lake when someone is skipping rocks. There are ripples. He’s kissing Sansa. And her lips are soft and sweet and full, but even if they were thin and dry and sour, he’d still be kissing her.

And he’s stroking her hair. Her lovely, shining, silky red hair. He’s running his fingers through it.

They push the plates out of the way as Sansa leans back. Soon, he’s atop her, addicted to her mouth. He drowns in her.

Eventually, though, they do break apart. It gives him a chance to just look down at her. They smile. She strokes his cheek.

“Jon Targaryen… Will you marry me?”

“Hopefully. If I don’t die of happiness before the wedding.”

She manages a laugh. “I’d never forgive you if you did.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to live long enough.” He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. “But, to be on the safe side, we should probably marry very, very soon, don’t you think?”

She grins and gives an eager nod. “You know…”

“No, what?”

She glances back, and Jon follows her gaze. She is looking at the Heart Tree.

“Obviously, we’d need to have a big, grand wedding. You’re a prince and I’m Lady of Winterfell, and we’d need to have an occasion worthy of hosting the queen and all my subjects. The queen might even want us to have it in the Great Sept to keep the Faith happy. That will take a long time to arrange. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a quick, plain little ceremony here before then. All we’d need for that is to get a few witnesses to come down here, be married, and just plan the big ceremony for everyone else. I mean, I was raised with two religions, after all. It seems to me I ought to have two weddings. The first one can just be much smaller and much, much sooner.”

Jon grins. “Yes, the vows are very simple, and there is none of that fancy ritual nonsense or calling of a septon required. We could even, perish the thought, wed tonight if we wished.”

“You don’t think some people might object? Like, say, your aunt?”

“She’s been badgering me about finding a Northern bride for ages. Even mentioned you a couple of times. Still… I do imagine she’d want a chance to give her permission. But, on the other hand, there’s no reason she needs to know of this little ceremony at all, is there?”

“You’re a wicked bastard, Jon Targaryen.”

“I am, Sansa Stark. But I think I can get away with it.” He winks at her then, truly feeling wicked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

She nods. “Let’s… Let’s do it. Get Arya, Bran, and Rickon.” She smacks him on the chest. “Hurry! You can spend plenty of time on top of me tonight!”

He kisses her again. “I love you.”

He fetches his siblings, carrying Bran on his back. He doesn’t tell them what’s happening until they start approaching the clearing.

“What is going on, Jon? Did you botch it?!” Arya demands.

“Botch what?” Rickon asks.

“No, Arya, he didn’t,” Bran says gravely. Jon pauses for a second, then continues moving. He’s since learned to stop asking his brother how he knows all the random, strange things he knows.

“Bran, did you know about this?” He asks instead.

“I’ve known for six years.”

“Known WHAT?!” Rickon demands. Then he looks at Jon. “Wait, are you and Sansa going to have a baby?!”

“WHAT?!” Jon almost drops Bran.

“No, Rickon, Sansa and Jon are in love!” Arya tells their youngest brother. Rickon surprises them by rolling his eyes.

“Well, yes, but what does that have to do with us going to the woods?”

Jon stares at the youngest Stark. “Why would you think we’re having a baby? And… wait, why doesn’t the fact that we’re in love surprise you?”

“Was that supposed to be a secret or something?” Rickon asks, sounding confused. “I thought everyone knew. I mean, you two are always… I mean, you’re married, so…”

Jon stops dead, completely stunned. Where had the lad gotten that notion in his head? “No, Rickon, we’re not married. Why did you think we were married?”

His little brother halts then. “Wait, you’re not married?!”

“No!” The other three say. The boy gapes at Jon for a while.

“But… But… Aren’t you our cousin who is also our half-brother?”

Jon nods, still not following. “In a fashion, yes.”

“Well, half-brothers are the brothers who are your brothers because they’re married to your sister! So if you’re our half-brother, you’re married to Sansa. I mean, I know Arya’s not married, so it’s Sansa.”

“Rickon, that’s good-brothers!” Arya says, cupping her temple. “Half brothers are when you have the same father, but not the same mother, or you have the same mother, but not the same father!”

Rickon wrinkles his nose at Jon. “You’re in love with Sansa and you have the same Father as us?!”

“No!” Jon is amazed at this. Had they never explained this to him? “Growing up, your father pretended I was his bastard son, but I wasn’t really. I was his sister’s son with Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. But Lord Stark had to lie to keep me safe.”

Rickon gives a great, big sigh of relief. “Oh, good! I was worried! But… you’re saying you’re not married to Sansa?”

“No, of course not! Rickon… You’ve been with us for four years. We’ve never had a wedding!”

“I thought you both married during the war. One of those quick weddings that lots of soldiers have before they leave for battle. I mean, you two act like you’re married, and you rule Winterfell together. And you’re always looking at Sansa all, ‘I want to kiss you.’”

“To be fair, Jon,” Bran says, “You and Sansa have never been particularly subtle about each other, and you have, in many ways, acted like a married couple for several years. You live together, you rule together, you are very close, and you are obviously very much in love.”

He wants to sink into the ground. “Bran, we’re not—”

“I know.”

Arya looks around at them all, aghast. “Wait, am I the only one who needed Jon to tell me?”

The two Stark boys look at one another. “Yes.” They say in unison.

“Don’t feel too bad, Arya,” Bran assures his sister, “You have a hard time seeing Jon as anything but a brother. You probably knew on some level, but didn’t want to acknowledge it until Jon made you. It took me years to accept this… situation. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stomach looking at Jon once I saw him again, knowing what I knew.”

Jon cringes, completely embarrassed. “Wait, you knew for years? Before you even saw us again?!”

“I saw it in the cave,” Bran replies.

“And you never said anything?! Sansa and I were petrified of telling each other, and you never—”

“I wasn’t meant to.” Bran says simply. “That’s not how this works. I’ve told you.”

Jon gives up. He begins walking again.

“Jon…” Rickon says.

“What?!”

“If you’re not married… You haven’t been taking liberties, have you?! I will not have my sister dishonored!”

“No!” He’s ready to strangle all three of them at this point.

“…I’m just so confused,” declares the youngest Stark despondently.

Jon gives an incredulous groan. Bran leans toward his younger brother.

“Don’t worry, Rickon, Jon and Sansa will be married in a few minutes.”

Now Arya stops. “That’s what we’re doing?!”

Jon glares at her. “You forced the issue. So you’re going to witness it.”

She glares back. “I’m not going to be involved in your bedding ceremony.”

“Arya! Icky!” Rickon shouts.

“You know what beddings are, but you don’t know ‘good-brother’?!” His sister exclaims in disbelief. “How?!”

“He’s a kid, Arya. Leave him alone. And he’s right,” Jon says, eager to get to the clearing and get this over with, “That was icky. There won’t be a bedding ceremony.”

“Thank the gods.”

Jon tries not to gag.

“But Jon and Sansa are still going to make babes, right?”

“Please stop talking, Rickon,” Jon begs his little brother, marveling at his frame of knowledge. What sort of things did they teach on Skaagos? “And don’t ask these questions in front of your sister.”

“I already have.”

“I meant Sansa.”

“Well, of course. She’s a lady.”

Jon begins to run towards the clearing now. He can’t take anymore of this.

Bran gives him a reassuring pat on the back. “If it makes you feel better, you’re going to be very happy.”

“That you can tell me?”

Bran shrugs. “You’ve already made the decision to wed. Nothing is affected if I tell you that at this point.”

They get to the clearing at last. Jon sets Bran down by the roots, feeling immense relief. He looks at Sansa. She’s put on the necklace and she hands him their picnic blanket.

“What’s this for?”

“A makeshift bridal cloak.”

“Ah.”

“Ah.”

She turns to her younger brother. “Rickon, you will have to give me away to Jon, alright?”

The lad looks horrified. “But… Jon promised there’d be no bedding!”

“RICKON!”

Everyone yells at him, except Sansa, whose face turns as red as her hair. She takes her brother aside and begins giving him instructions. Jon tries not to die of embarrassment. Arya walks to his side.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

 

THE END


End file.
